


kisses on my knuckles

by royalwisteria



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexual Character, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Miller swears a lot, background Bellarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:52:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3951343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalwisteria/pseuds/royalwisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I look a lot like someone in one of your classes and every other day you come up to me and start talking to me like I’m them" AU.</p>
<p>Some guy keeps mistaking Miller for someone called Jason, he's not entirely thrilled by how cute the guy is, and Miller would totally testify in court about how terrible Bellamy is at being a best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kisses on my knuckles

Miller is walking across campus, earbuds in place and matching his stride with beat, when someone grabs his arm. It’s more like a quick touch, because the grip soon disappears and he tugs one earbud out, Beyonce still singing in one ear, and looks at the person. “Do I know you?” he asks in confusion, eyeing the unfamiliar guy.

The guy— straight, black hair and almond eyes, mobile mouth, like _shit_ , he’s cute? uh-oh, _fucking hell_  more like it— opens his mouth and then closes it again. “You’re— you’re not Jason.”

Miller licks his lips, glancing around the green. People walk past them, a girl with a tie-dye backpack shooting them a look for stopping in the middle of the path. “No, I’m not?”

“But you look like Jason,” the other says, and then a momentary expression of horror crosses his face. “Oh, shit, okay, I must have mixed you up, my bad. Sorry,” he says and then he’s backing away before turning around and walking away.

Miller watches him leave, a divot forming in his forehead before he shrugs, tucks his earbud back in and resumes walking to his apartment.

 

 

“Listen,” Miller says, gesturing with a beer in hand to the people around them. “I am your best friend and I know you want to get back together.”

Bellamy grunts. “You’ve been demoted.”

Miller snorts and takes a swig. The beer is shitty, the party’s shitty, but Bellamy needs to get drunk and so here they are. “To what, friend? Not gonna change the facts, my man. Now, I have a drink in hand and you do not. Let’s change that, huh?” Bellamy looks sullen, leaning against the wall, and getting drunk is always— _always_ — left to Miller. Ever since they were freshmen, it was Miller dragging a reluctant Bellamy to parties, events on campus, whatever. Bellamy should be a little more thankful because, if it wasn’t for Miller, Bellamy would have never met Clarke at that acappella concert Miller took him to. And has Bellamy ever thanked Miller for this? No.

He’s pouring some tequila in a solo cup, eyeing it to calculate the number of shots, when he hears someone shout Jason at him and then someone is throwing an arm around his shoulder. He spills a little of the tequila— what a _waste_ , man— and half-turns to glare at the interrupter.

“Oh,” the guy says. “It’s not Jason. I messed up. Again. It’s you! Not-Jason!” Then he laughs, loud, and leans a little too close to Miller’s body. He can smell the vodka on his breath and pulls a face.

“Yeah, you did,” he says instead of complaining and continues making a drink for Bellamy, grabbing some juice on the counter. It’s extra strong, because Bellamy’s too proud to say if a drink is too strong for him. Since Bellamy’s an ungrateful little shit, Miller’s going to make this a great night and a terrible morning-after.

“You must have one of those faces.” The guy pulls back and roughly pats Miller’s face, fingers lingering on the hollow of his cheeks. He bears it with a stoic patience that Bellamy would mock him for if he wasn’t such a party pooper and still against the wall.

“Don’t think so,” he says with a tight smile. “Maybe you’re just drunk as fuck.”

He laughs and then tilts his head. “I am! I’m also Monty.”

Miller eyes Monty’s stretched hand and raises an eyebrow. “Chill. See you later.” He returns to Bellamy, tequila mixer in hand and hands it over. “We’ll head somewhere else when you finish that,” he says with a sip of his beer. “So drink up, my man. Tonight’s not over until you’re drunk enough to realize my superior wisdom.”

Bellamy sniffs and Miller gleefully watches as his best friend’s eyebrows draw together in resignation before he takes a sip. “This is gross,” Bellamy says. “You know what tequila does to me.”

“It’s why I chose it,” Miller replies, hand on the bottom of his glass to encourage him to drink more. “Now, go go go.”

 

 

Miller is running dangerously low on sleep, his stomach hurts from all the coffee, and his midterms are still not over. The library is closing in an hour and Miller wishes he could be done before then, but he’s not that lucky. It’s just one more paper and then a language exam. The words in front of him are blurring and his eyes flutter  and he didn’t _mean_ to fall asleep, but it’s the only explanation for someone tapping on his shoulder and the drool he can feel.

“Wha—?” he asks, head shooting up, back of one hand wiping at his face and the other checking his phone. Only twenty minutes have passed and he feels a little better. He then turns to see Monty wearing an apologetic smile. “I’m not Jason,” he says.

“I know,” Monty says. “I wanted to apologize for the party. “I was drunk.”

Miller shrugs and turns back to his paper. “Whatever.”

“I’d like to make it up to you,” Monty says, pulling out the chair next to him. The table is split by partitions, and Monty bypasses it by scooting his chair closer. “How about a coffee?”

The thought of more coffee makes his stomach twist. He smiles tightly. “No thanks. No coffee.”

Monty leans a little closer, and Miller starts to wonder if this guy has any sense of personal space. Since day one while crossing campus, Monty has continuously felt the need to be physically far too close. “Ah,” Monty says and gets up. “I’ll be right back.”

Miller glances behind him a few moments later, because he’s a curious fucker and can’t control it, and watches Monty enter the stairwell. His stomach continues to twist and it’s hard to focus on his paper with his body in uproar over so many different things.

Not even ten minutes have passed when Monty is back, setting down a paper cup from the on campus cafe. “Drink this,” he says and, with an enigmatic smile, disappears.

Miller watches him the whole way with a frown. Monty doesn’t look back and Miller tries not to eye that ass too much, but he’s bi. Not blind. When Monty is gone from view, the stairwell door closing with a soft click, Miller takes the cap off to give the drink a sniff. It smells of peppermint and he cautiously takes a sip. it tastes like it smells: of peppermint. He shrugs, finds it somewhat relaxing, and continues drinking it as he works.

The stomachache lessens as he drinks the tea and it’s a miracle. He finishes the paper before the library closes.

 

 

A week later, Miller is refreshed— “like a fucking daisy,” Bellamy says over a mug of green tea at breakfast. “I hate you.”

“You’re just jealous,” Miller says, words muffled through the toast he’s pushing into his mouth, grabbing a to-go mug to fill with coffee on campus. Their coffee drip is broken, leaving him little other choice if he wants coffee. “That I’m done with midterms and you’re not.”

Bellamy takes a sip from his mug, which reads ‘my mustache is for her pleasure’, a gag gift from Miller last Christmas— which backfired because of how much Bellamy loves it— from when Bellamy still had a mustache. “Walk into traffic,” Bellamy says as Miller continues to chew the bread in his mouth, wincing when a sharp piece scrapes his gums.

“The things I do for love,” he replies, swallowing a bit of bread, and goes out the door. He has twenty minutes until class starts and it takes ten minutes to walk to class. The cafe probably has a line, it always does in the mornings, and simply waiting in line will probably use all the remaining time he has. However, Miller hates his gov class because the professor’s an ass and his classmates are no better.

The bell tingles as he enters and the line looks shorter than predicted, which pleases him. While waiting, he takes his phone out and finds an email canceling class because his professor caught a cold. Miller glances up and around and debates heading home, or to the library, to get other work done but decides to stay and get the coffee that he, quite honestly, really wants.

“Medium latte, please,” Miller tells the barista, setting his to-go mug on the counter, before digging in his bag. “I’ve also got a card,” he says, voice trailing into a mumble until he unearths the bright orange punch-card. He’s two away from a free coffee.

The barista is smiling at him, cap on backwards, bangs pushed flat against his forehead. “It’s Jason,” he says with a mocking tone and Miller recognizes Monty.

“Ah, hey,” he says. “Do you really not know my name?”

Monty shrugs, pressing some buttons on the monitor. “You never introduced yourself. 3.54 is your total.”

Miller hands over his credit card and their fingers brush. “Oh, it’s— it’s Miller. Nathan, really, but most people call me Miller.”

There’s a small smile on his face when he swipes Miller’s card and hands it back. “My shift is over in fifteen if you wanted to hang,” he offers tentatively. Miller smiles.

“Actually, sure. You can tell me who the hell Jason is for starters.”

Monty smiles, Miller smiles back, and, like, _shit_ , this is just like Bellamy and Clarke. How _embarrassing_ , fuck it all. But Miller thinks of the peppermint tea and the warm hand Monty had pressed onto his shoulder, how he leaned too close at that party, and it’s whatever, really. He can be just as love-struck as Bellamy and that’s okay.

Wait, Miller doubles-back in his thought process as he waits for his coffee. Love-struck? He’s not love struck. He snorts mentally. What a ridiculous thought.

 

 

Miller’s still in the cafe, flipping through his gov book— he might hate the class, but he still wants to ace it— when Monty finishes his shift and finds him.

“Hey,” he says, flopping onto the sofa next to him. “I used to love coffee before I had to make it ten hours every week.”

“Work study?” Miller asks, closing the textbook. The cover catches the morning light, glinting harshly, and he quickly puts it away.

“Yeah,” Monty says with a sigh. “I might dislike coffee now, but at least I’m not in the dining hall. Privilege of being a junior I suppose.”

“So you’re a junior?”

Monty nods. “Yeah. D’you want to stay here, or—?”

Miller grins and picks up his backpack, carelessly slinging it over his shoulder as he stands. “It’s a beautiful October day. Let’s take a walk.”

 

 

He’s known for years that he’s a shit flirter. Bellamy teased him, Clarke teased him, even fucking _Murphy_ teased him. Murphy teases everyone about everything, but when Miller punched him for teasing him about having a single dad, Murphy had stayed mum about Miller’s teasing points. So if Murphy had decided to tease Miller about this, it’s fucking real. It’s just that Miller never particularly cared until now, hanging out with Monty a couple times the next week, and thinking about inviting him over to his apartment for dinner, or a movie, or, fuck, anything really. And he’s been trying to flirt with Monty, but it seems like Monty’s not picking up on it, which makes it all the harder to make the invitation seem more… date-like than their previous hang-outs have been.

It’s because he’s a shit flirter. Miller knows this. He’s just fucking shitty at it and life is shitty and fuck, he knows they’re all laughing at him. Bellamy is back with Clarke and they’re probably laughing about his huge crush on Monty and how Miller likes him even when he’s got hat-hair post-work, in between making their gross cooing faces at each other. Bellamy _owes_ him and should know better. Bro code, or whatever. Miller got him incredibly drunk several times. He deserves better. Miller bets even Monroe knows, who’s usually so involved in her bio textbook that she doesn’t notice when people are talking to her. When she does notice, she turns around, glasses half-way down her nose, with an irritated curl of her mouth.

Yeah, Miller thinks, as he waits for his early-civ class to start, staring at his phone. Even Monroe knows. His texts are pathetic, like, jesus fucking christ, he even censors himself around Monty. It’s a huge deal. Miller doesn’t censor himself around anyone else— not his parents, not his professors, not fucking anyone. But Monty? He doesn’t know if it bothers him or not, so he’s not gone for it yet.

As the professor walks in, her face harried, a little pinched and drawn, Miller types a quick message— _hey i’m making lasagne tomorrow, wanna come over?_ — and sends it before he can double-think. His professor slumps in her seat, hand in her hair and smiles sympathetically at her students. He’s sliding his phone away when she says, “So I finished grading your midterms.”

 

 

He gets a yes in response and he snapchats Bellamy and draws over his face endless questions marks with the text ‘monty’s coming tomorrow save me’ hovering over. He’s half-serious and wants to throw his phone at the wall and then punch Bellamy when he gets a snapchat ten minutes later of Bellamy and Clarke making pouty faces at him with the text ‘we’ll make sure to stay clear’ over. He hates his friends. He’s fucking poisoning Bellamy next chance he gets.

Good news is: his lasagne is out of this world. His dad’s a bomb-ass cook and taught his son the basics of pasta meals, because, he had said with a wink, ‘I was a college-student once’ and Miller had to banish an image of his dad in bell-bottoms and an afro because his dad is that kind of guy. Bad news: Miller never cooks for two people, he cooks for at least ten. That way there’s always a bunch of leftovers, and Bellamy starts to beg for some after a day, and Miller’s a fan of Bellamy’s pleading face with clasped hands. He’s taken pictures and uses them when he needs to embarrass his best friend.

The doorbell rings when he’s layering the noodles with the meat and cheese and he quickly rinses his hands, wiping his hands on a towel as he opens the door. “Hey,” he says, throwing the towel over his shoulder as he leads him in. “I’m just about to put it into the oven— you’re early, you know.”

Monty smiles and shows Miller a bottle of red wine. “Thought I should get the chef an alcoholic appetizer.”

Miller grins. “Awesome. We don’t have wine glasses, so tell me your pick between a mug or a cup.”

“Either’s fine,” Monty says as he surveys the kitchen-dining room combo. It’s no different from most of the other on-campus apartments, but it still makes Miller nervous. “Nice poster,” Monty says, placing the wine on the counter and stepping over to a wall. “I’m a big fan of Matisse.”

Miller shrugs, grabbing the corkscrew and a couple of their nicer glasses. “That’s Bellamy’s. I’ve never been a huge fan myself.”

Monty raises an eyebrow and returns to the counter to accept the cup. “So what art do you like?”

Taking a sip from his own glass, Miller returns to layering the lasagne. “I’m really into propaganda, actually.” Monty laughs and Miller smiles. Laughing is always a good sign. “I’m a gov major, right? I think it’s really interesting, like the stuff Maoist China used, or the Obama posters. Bellamy, of course,” he says, with a conspiratorial tone, “is a Classics nerd and totally in love with Roman pottery. Like obsessed, Monty. He likes Matisse, but he’s into black figures on red clay.”

Monty laughs again. “I’m a fan of impressionist stuff myself. It’s just striking, you know? That movement from life-like to what it feels like. It’s cool.”

Miller shrugs and rinses his hands of the cheese bits still sticking to his fingers before putting the pan into the oven. “It’ll be thirty minutes, so get comfortable.”

“That’s what the wine is for,” Monty says with a wink. Miller grins, ducking his head and tries so, so hard not to do the aw-shucks thing, with a blush, hand rubbing the back of his neck. It’s a hard fight, but ends in victory.

“Then here’s to lasagne and wine.” They clink glasses and lounge at the dining table, chatting about the day.

“Where’s Bellamy?” Monty asks, fingers tracing the rim of the glass.

Miller rolls his eyes and bitterly says, “with his girlfriend.”

Monty frowns. “I thought you—”

“They’re great together,” Monty hastens to say. The bitterness was at the abandonment and the need to castrate Bellamy and how it’s likely never going to happen. “Clarke and he, they’re made for each other.”

Monty’s mouth opens a little, frowning. “Clarke?” he echoes. “Are you talking about Clarke Griffin?”

“Yeah?” Monty asks with raised eyebrows. “You know her?”

Monty grins. “Yeah, we had orgo together last year. It was hellish, but Clarke’s notes are killer.”

“She never told me she knew you,” Miller says. The bitch.

“Clarke’s friends with everyone.” Monty rolls his eyes. “I’m surprised she has time for a boyfriend on top of schoolwork and appeasing all her adoring fans.”

“They have their ups and downs, but they’re just meant to be. I mean it,” Miller adds meaningful when he catches the doubtful look on Monty’s face. “You’ve not seen them together, but god, it’s sickening how in love they are. They don’t finish each other sentences, but I’ve seen a lot of couples, and they’re built to last.”

Monty smiles softly, staring at Miller. It makes him uncomfortable, and he glances at the time on the oven. Twelve minutes left, thank god.

“You’re a romantic, aren’t you,” Monty says. “It’s sweet.”

Miller snorts. “I’m not, actually, not in the slightest. I’m the farthest thing from romantic you can get.”

“Well,” Monty says, leaning forward. They’re not that much closer, but the room feels smaller, air leeched, and Miller nervously glances everywhere but at Monty. “I think you’re romantic. How many people have their first dates be a home-cooked meal?”

Miller can’t breathe for a moment, because, fuck, Monty’s just cruel. “You— you think this is a date?”

Monty frowns, teeth worrying his lip for a moment. It makes Miller swallow. “Yeah. Isn’t it?”

“I want it to be,” Miller says desperately. “This is a date. Yeah. A date. Our first date.”

Monty smiles and it’s the sun, and Miller is so fucked. _So_ fucked. “Great. Awesome. Perfect.”

“Were those sentences?” Miller asks, entirely helpless and unable to look away.

Monty shrugs. “Close enough.”

Miller doesn’t remember what the lasagne tasted like and couldn’t even tell Bellamy what they talked about when Monty left and Bellamy returned.

“I’ve got it bad,” is all he can say. “Fuck. Bellamy. I haven’t in—”

Bellamy grins, fucking bastard, and opens his arms wide. “We should hug this out,” he says, that shit-eating grin still in place. “C’mon bro, let’s hug this out.”

“Fuck hugs,” Miller replies, but steps into his best friend’s arms and hugs him tightly. It’s a well-kept secret, but Bellamy’s hugs are the fucking best. “I can’t fuck this up,” he mutters into Bellamy’s shirt. “I’m gonna fuck this up.”

Bellamy pinches his side and Miller jerks away with a grimace. “I’m going to murder you one day,” he says with no heat and looks away from that disapproving look.

“You’re not going to fuck anything up,” Bellamy says. “Do _I_ need to get _you_ drunk or something?”

“Hell no. I’m just worried, okay.”

“Everyone is worried when starting a new relationship Miller. It’s normal.”

Miller thinks about that for a moment, before shrugging. “What happens, happens.”

“That’s a defeatist attitude,” Bellamy says, but doesn’t pursue it further when Miller retreats to his room.

 

 

The second date is a movie, and then they study together because finals are approaching quickly and Monty is a great deal more studious than Miller.

“You’re a little genius,” Miller says, sighing as his eyes skim his gov notes. “I don’t get why you study so much.”

Monty gives him a little smile and takes his hand, squeezing it. “You have some decent calluses,” he says in surprise, taking his hand more firmly and turning it over. Miller moves to take his hand away, but Monty refuses to relinquish. “It’s nice,” he amends. “I like it. I just— where’d you get them from?”

Miller shrugs, curling his fingers into Monty’s hand. “I used to play the violin. A long time ago.”

Monty’s grin lets him know the lie was caught. “These calluses aren’t old. You still play.”

Now Miller does pull his hand away, scratching his scalp, before spinning a pen in his fingers. “Fine. I still play. It’s mostly a stress reliever, you know? You have to focus and everything else sorta just fades away.”

“No, yeah, I totally get it, I play guitar for the same reason. You’re probably a better violinist than me as a guitarist though.” Monty smiles wryly. “Anyways, you need to do your gov stuff, you’ve got an annotated bibliography due soon. Get that ass in gear.”

Miller suddenly thinks of Monty slapping his ass which is, uh, _not good_ , like at all, and he swallows thickly, desperately trying to not think about touching Monty’s ass which is, like, _way worse_ , Jesus fucking _Christ_. “Yeah. Sure.”

 

 

Murphy’s being a dick, no surprise there, and Miller should have known better than to invite Monty to the end of the year party he and Bellamy have thrown since they were freshmen. He didn’t know just what kind of dick Murphy was going to be, which is every single kind of dick and asshole possible, and Miller is honestly just going to punch him, regardless of how clean he’s been around Monty. He’s stopped saying fuck as much as he used to just normally, which Bellamy had pointed out a week ago with a concerned hand on his shoulder and his face far too close.

“Murphy,” Miller growls, solo cup in hand, so he can’t grip something tightly as a vent for his anger. “I swear.”

Murphy just smirks, fucking _assholedick_ , and says, “What, never learned a soft-touch without a mommy-dearest?”

And that is just— that’s fucking it. Miller places the solo cup down, those in the vicinity quiet and Monty frowning as he glances between the two of them. “I’m going to beat your fucking ass,” Miller says and has the satisfaction to see a glint of fear before he’s punching Murphy, one hand on his shoulder to steady him as he gets his gut in a good, underhanded jab.

He can hear Bellamy shouting his name, but Miller is beyond angry, because he was first teasing Monty about their sex life— non existent, and Miller’s fine with that, really— about Miller’s moodiness, how a computer science major plus gov major are just perfect for each other. And then a comment about his mom?

“You have no right,” he says, spitting into Murphy’s face as he steps away. Bellamy’s pulling on his arm and he thinks Monty’s hovering by his shoulder with a tentative out-stretched hand, and he shakes away from both of them as he walks outside, grabbing a jacket for the chill, December air. Murphy didn’t even try to hit back. What the fuck.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, anger roiling in his stomach still, and walks along the road. He passes by a couple, laughing, the girl almost tripping in her heels on the gravel. Monty’s probably going to want to break up with him. Everything had been going so great, too, fucking hell. There were a few mishaps in the beginning, with Monty mistaking him for Jason from his class, but— things got good. Miller’s not been in a good, healthy relationship for years.

“Miller!” It’s Monty’s voice, fuck, and Miller hunches his shoulders and knows his face is a mix between pouting and belligerent, but what the fuck ever. 

“What?”

“Are you okay?” Monty asks, skidding to a stop, almost slipping on the gravel and Miller catches him around the waist— like he’s a princess, or something, and Miller can feel how small Monty actually is, the width of his waist, his skinniness.

“Fine,” he mumbles. Monty grabs his hand and squints at the back of it in the dim, street lamplight.

“You can’t just punch people like that,” Monty says with a scolding tone. Miller’s teeth grind because he knows what’s coming next— the violin was a way to curb violent outbursts in middle school. They all teased him for his dad, which is the stupidest thing ever to tease anyone about, and Miller never learned to back down from a fight. He had friends in high school, but after a couple fights there, they backed away. In college, Miller had recreated himself, in a way. No one knew about his parents, and they were more open-minded here anyways. Bellamy didn’t care at least and it was the greatest miracle that they were roommates as freshmen. “You’ll hurt your hands.”

“Wait,” Miller says, clasping Monty’s hand with the one held and they hang like a promise between them. “What?”

“You’re a violinist, right?” Monty asks, peering up at him. It’s an unfair tactic. “Your hands are important. Don’t go punching someone as worthless as Murphy.”

“You’re too much,” Miller mutters and lifts Monty’s hand to press a kiss to his knuckles.

In the quiet, Miller thinks he hears Monty swallow and brings their hands to his forehead, Monty’s skin a little rough on his skin. He breathes in deeply, the contact settling him.

“My dad’s a single parent,” he says, releasing their hands and— Monty looks a little disappointed? Is that right? Miller wishes, at least, but the shitty lighting makes it hard to tell. “And I’ve been teased for years about him. Murphy knows better.”

Monty shrugs and nods back to Miller and Bellamy’s apartment. “Wanna go back?”

Miller grins and, despite knowing why, Monty answers it with his own. “Nah, let’s go for a joyride. Get some micky-d’s, go riding through summer countryside with the windows down.”

Monty’s still smiling, though he looks a little confused, a slight frown on his face. “You have a car?”

“Yeah, come on.”

 

 

His car smells of oil and processed food, but Miller doesn’t care. There’s something soothing about these joyrides, that he’s been taking for who knows how long anymore. They started the moment his dad and he bought the beat up sedan with broken a/c a couple years ago. Miller has always been about freedom, and driving with no destination, hands on the wheel and the feel of the world around you, is the best high.

“I can’t drive,” Monty says companionably, body contorted to press against the door with his seatbelt still on. His shoes are off and now and then Miller sees him flex his feet and wiggle his toes. “Grew up in the city and never needed to.

“New York?”

Monty hums. “My parents don’t drive either. They always say, ‘we have public transit so we should use it!’” Miller grins at the imitation.

“I’d like to meet them,” he says without thinking. Monty doesn’t say anything and munches on some fries. Miller shifts in his seat, stretches his shoulders, and tries not to think about how the wind blowing in from the open windows makes the silence seem more awkward than it should. “I mean, if that’s okay.”

“I’m sure it would be,” Monty says slowly. “They’re just… intense. My mom’s, like, brilliant, with a PhD in environmental science and my dad’s a total hippie, but they’re sort of in the, uh, dark?”

Miller glances over from the road to give his boyfriend a raised-eyebrow look.

“About, well, my sexuality.”

“What, about you being gay or bi?”

Monty squirms, and Miller’s heart starts beating faster as though about to be crushed. Does this mean— does this mean he’s no into Miller? Like, _that_ way? The way that Miller’s into Monty? Shit this is fucking terrible.

“I’m asexual,” Monty blurts. “Not gay or bi or— or whatever. I’m ace.” Monty takes a deep breath and Miller frowns while looking out towards the road.

“Huh,” he says. “Is that why we’ve not kissed and pretty much total lack of pda?”

“Uh, so you, uh, know about asexuality?”

“Well, yeah. I’m not an idiot, you know.” Miller glances over and catches a sliver of Monty’s smile as he glances down at his hands. His heart tightens. 

“A lot of people have no idea.”

“To be fair to the general populace, then, I sorta educated myself when I was trying to figure out my own sexuality. I toyed with the idea of being aro, but later decided I wasn’t.”

Monty hums, bites into a fry. “Interesting. An aro and an ace.”

“I said I’m not aro. Or don’t think I am,” Miller says, momentarily taking his eyes off the road to find a fry to toss at him.

Monty laughs. “Got it, got it. Stop throwing food, it’s rude.”

“Hey, don’t forget, I’m the one driving. One wrong move and I’m kicking you out the car.” Miller glances over and swallows at the soft, easy expression on Monty’s face as he gazes back. He blushes, fucking hell, and looks back towards the road. He’s such a sap. Bellamy is never going to let him live this down after the hell Miller gave about Clarke.

 

 

They drive back to campus, and Monty kisses the back of his hand before they separate. Miller’s voice catches in his throat as he says goodbye because that very action, the brush of lips and the gentle touch of Monty’s breath, and the words sound strangled to his ears. Monty smiles and walks away, hands thrust in his pockets. Not fair, Miller thinks, as he heads inside. The party is over, the attendees have dissipated, and Bellamy is half-asleep on the couch with red solo cups all over the place. One spot of the tiled floor looks sticky, likely from a spill.

“Hey,” Miller says, hand on one hip, the other scratching the back of his head awkwardly. Bellamy’s about to give him hell for the Murphy thing, too, he knows.

“Oh, good, you’re back,” Bellamy says with a groan as he sits up, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. There’s a wince and he bites as though something’s in his mouth. “You okay?”

“Yeah. You’re not mad?”

Bellamy gives him a look. “Murphy’s always saying uncalled for shit, and you’re the only one to ever give him hell for it. I don’t even know why he was trying that BS again.” Then Bellamy squints at him and says with suspicion, “You look happy.”

“Monty didn’t break up with me,” Miller replies as he falls onto the couch next to him. They sprawl out next to each other, long legs stretched in front, heels on the floor, and Bellamy slings one arm around Miller’s shoulders. Yeah, Miller thinks again, it’s a miracle he got Bellamy as a freshman roommate.

“Congrats man,” Bellamy says and then pinches his shoulder. Miller doesn’t react. “Wanna go on a double date with me and Clarke?”

“Hell no,” Miller grumbles. “You two are sickening.”

It’s been years so Miller can _feel_ the shit-eating grin spreading across his best friend’s face. “I think you and Monty are gonna give us a run for our money.”

“Fuck you, man,” Miller says half-heartedly and sinks a little further into the couch. “I don’t think it’s possible to be grosser than you two.”

“You’ll see,” Bellamy says knowingly. “I bet you’ll see real soon.”

 

 

They made a promise to hang out one more time before they head home, Miller to Oregon and Monty to Wisconsin. He doesn’t know why their homes are so far apart, nor how they both ended up in the east, but here they are and Miller’s glad for it.

“Let’s grab coffee,” Miller says when he approaches the couch Monty’s sitting on while waiting. Monty glances up at him and smiles, tucking his phone away.

“Sure,” he says and when he stands, Monty grabs Miller’s hand. They fit together nicely, and Miller’s noticed this every single time. There are some calluses on the tips of his fingers from guitar, somewhat like the calluses on his from violin. Miller watches as Monty absently runs his thumb up and down the back of Miller’s hand. They get coffee.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a sappy loser lmao sorry-- chat with me on [tumblr](serbellamy.tumblr.com)?


End file.
